Something wet and spiky hits his face. He wakes with a shout, sitting up in the darkened spare room. His cheek is damp. His nephew stands at his bedside, grinning like a toothless demon, a loo brush in his fist.
Jesus. The little brat just whacked him in the face. Sam uses the edge of the sheet to wipe his cheek, not wanting to look at the specifics of what exactly he’s removing. He pushes his legs out of the covers. He has no idea what time it is. Since arriving at his sister’s weeks ago, he hasn’t kept to any kind of routine. Most days he doesn’t even know what date it is.
He stifles a yawn and blinks at the toddler. ‘Watch out for the tickle monster!’ He holds out his hands, wiggling his fingers. ‘I’m coming to get you!’
River staggers away on chubby, uncertain legs, still clutching his weapon of choice, laughing.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Sam finds Mattie on her hands and knees picking up what looks like regurgitated food. The cat is on the table, tail in the air, stepping delicately around dirty plates and cups.
Mattie glances up at him, raising an eyebrow. ‘At last, the prince awakes.’
‘Your son just smashed me in the face with a loo brush.’ Sam grimaces. ‘None too clean, either.’
‘That’s what you get for being a lazy sod. I’ve been awake since five this morning and I haven’t sat down yet.’ She hauls herself to her feet. ‘You need to start helping.’ She wipes her hands together. ‘Otherwise it’s bloody well time to move on.’
Sam drops into the nearest chair, slumping over the table. He picks up a blackened crust of toast and bites into it. ‘I told you,’ he says with his mouth full. ‘I can’t go anywhere until she replies. This is the return address I gave in my letters. I gave her your telephone number too.’
‘It’s been weeks, Jack.’ She raises an eyebrow, correcting herself. ‘Sam. She’s not going to reply now.’ She sits next to him. ‘Look. I’m not saying this to be cruel, but someone has to tell you the truth. This girl, Cat, I know you’ve fallen for her. But I’m afraid she doesn’t feel the same, or she would have written or called or something by now.’
Sam stops chewing, globs of marmalade on his lips, charcoal on his tongue, gritty and tasteless as coal dust. ‘You don’t understand. I know she felt the same. I know she did.’ He drops his face into his hands, the musk of his unwashed body rising up. ‘The thing that scares me is that I … I told her that I’d lied. When I wrote, I explained everything. About Dad, and how angry I was. How my parents weren’t really dead. I explained that I was reinventing myself when I met her, that I’d renamed myself. I even told her about Lucinda.’ He looks at his sister. ‘But what if I made a mistake, telling her all that in a letter?’
Mattie sighs. ‘You did the right thing by explaining, even if you were an idiot to lie in the first place. It was good to tell her the truth. And if she can’t handle it …’ She shrugs.
‘She hates lies, Mattie. Her dad gambles, and she’s lived with his lies all her life.’
‘I know. You told me. About a million times.’ She squeezes his fingers. ‘What happened to your plans to work on your music?’
‘Yes, but I’ve been waiting—’
‘Stop waiting. Start doing. Stop this obsession with Hampstead Heath. God knows why you’re schlepping across town to mope about there, wasting your time. It won’t bring her back. Get on with your music. It will take your mind off her for a start. And what about your flat? You do own half of it. Have you discussed selling with Lucinda?’
‘She can live in it, at least until she wants to move. I’m not going to force her out of her home. I’m the one who’s let her down. It’s the least I can do.’
She sighs. ‘I suppose you’re doing the decent thing, although I don’t like to see you like this. It’s a lot to give up, Sam. You’ve gone from being Mr and Mrs Perfect in your designer flat to being broke, alone and homeless.’
‘Yeah,’ he says, raising an eyebrow. ‘Thanks for that, sis. You have a winning way with words.’
‘Just saying.’ She stands up. ‘We’re out of bread. I’m going to nip to the corner shop. Watch River for me.’
‘I’ll get it.’ He starts to rise.
She puts her hand on his shoulder. ‘There’s a whole pile of Lego on the carpet next door. Why don’t you teach your nephew how to build a flyover or something? I need some fresh air. Going out for a loaf of bread is about as good as it gets for me nowadays.’
The door slams. River is sitting on the rug next to the table, picking up bits of kibble from the cat’s bowl and sticking them up his nose. He startles at the sound of the door, swivelling his head left and right. Realising that his mother has gone, his bottom lip begins to quiver. Sam slides off his chair onto the rug and sits cross-legged next to him. ‘Don’t cry, mate.’
Big, fat drops are dribbling down River’s face.
‘Want to play with Lego?’
River shakes his head.
Sam gets onto all fours. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’m a horse. A gee-gee. Want a ride, River? Want to gallop round the house?’
River’s nappy feels squishy against Sam’s lower spine. Small, fat fingers tangle in his hair. He struggles to his feet, one hand under the child’s bottom to avoid accidental dismounts, and then he’s cantering through the rooms, bucking and whinnying, River digging his sharp little heels into his ribs like a rodeo rider.
After three laps around the downstairs, he collapses onto the sofa, panting, River sprawled across his stomach, hiccuping with mirth. In a matter of seconds, the toddler has closed his eyes, his lashes so extravagant they look as though they’re stuck on with glue. Holding his breath, Sam slips out from under his nephew’s sleepy weight.
He takes a small package of paper from his pocket – three pages covered in Cat’s large writing, worn and creased with rereading and refolding: the story she pressed into his hand, telling him to read it when he was back in London. He almost knows it off by heart. She writes beautifully. He’s studied it for clues as to why she doesn’t reply to his letters, but he can’t find any. The story isn’t about them. It’s about a woman called Cindy. A kind of modern fairy tale. He folds the pages again and slips them carefully into his pocket.
Mattie will be home in a minute. She was right, he admits to himself. Everything she said was right. He knows it in his bones. He can’t stay hidden in his sister’s spare room for ever. All those weeks with the covers pulled over his face, not helping Mattie or doing anything useful, just feeling sorry for himself, listening to sad love songs on his Walkman. It’s anger that’s building inside him now. He visualises Cat’s wide cheeks, her gappy smile, her long, silky honey hair. And then he rubs his hands over his face so hard that it hurts, as if he could erase the image, wipe himself clean of her memory.